


a dream, an evil one

by thefudge



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope
Genre: Angst, Dark, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Incest (big time), Parent/Child Incest, greek tragedy - Freeform, make sure you're strong of heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-04 16:24:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16350071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: The first time he sets his eyes upon her, he doesn’t notice the ghost, even though she’s dressed in white.





	a dream, an evil one

**Author's Note:**

> well kids, this is it, the big one. i don't know if this is my most controversial work - who am i kidding - YES it is. tread VERY very carefully. it's dark, but i think you can take it. just don't scream at me because you ignored my warnings. this GOES THERE, yes M-rated. so yes, prepare to get fucked .
> 
> (i should mention, in this version Anakin didn't get totally fucked by lava and doesn't wear a helmet for a specific reason. Also, he's heavily scarred and somewhat mutilated but still compelling aka hot, because i'm a thot)

I awoke in a dream  
An evil one, a setting sun  
I licked your hatred  
You set me free  
In summer, in the boiling blood

Hypnos – Chelsea Wolf

 

 

Mak Tai Tai: Do you like the diamond I picked?

Mr. Yee: The diamond itself is of no interest to me.

                    - Lust, Caution (dir. Ang Lee)

 

 

Dae-su Oh: Please. Don't tell Mido. 

                       - Oldboy (dir. Chan-wook Park)

 

 

***

The first time he sets his eyes upon her, he doesn’t notice the ghost, even though she’s dressed in white.

Maybe because he has been chasing her for the better part of a month and he is distracted by finally having achieved his goal. The Emperor cannot have such a powerful ally fall into the hands of the Rebels. Princess Leia must be made to submit.

But she has been stealthily avoiding him, always claiming diplomatic immunity.

Well, not anymore.

He has her exactly where he wants, spouting the same drivel about the Imperial Senate without realizing he already knows about the secret plans she has acquired.

She also does not realize her cheeks grow as red as blood when she lies. He notes the youth in her face, the inexperience, although there is cunning enough inside of her and some bravery too. She would have made a good commander, a good subordinate for the Empire.

“You will regret the choice you made today, Lord Vader,” she seethes, struggling against her guards. To make such a bold threat is the naivety of royalty. He will allow her that.

She stares at him, poring over his features. This is the first time she is seeing him as well. The deep-marked scars, the light trod of coals upon his skin, they have all given him a fierce, disturbing aura and men do not look easily upon his features, though they are still human. This is one reason why he refuses to hide himself.

The Princess has the temerity not to cower, but she does not withstand his gaze for long. What _does_ make her pause is the pure amber in his eyes. Some Sith Lords do not stoke that flame like he does.

“Take her to the brig. She will contemplate her own choices there.”

The Stormtroopers drag her away and, as her white robe glides across the floor he feels that familiar sensation of the Force greeting its likeness. She must be Force-sensitive.  There are many in the galaxy who harbor a sliver of power.

He wonders, though, if her true purpose with the Rebellion is more complicated. If they know about her potential.

He casts the thought aside. She is his and the Emperor’s now and her fate will be decided here.

 

 

He visits her in her cell on the Emperor’s authority, and he still cannot see it.

Perhaps because most of her face is in shadow.  Her once regal robes and intricate braids have fallen loose and become almost ridiculous on her. She cannot sustain the pomp anymore and it angers her. She is not used to sleeping on steel.

She looks away from him, clasping her fingers to avoid being intimidated.

“You are wasting your breath, Lord Vader.”

“Am I? It is you who shall waste away unless you comply.”

Leia makes an impatient motion with her head. “If you release me now and allow me safe passage to my home planet I might forget this humiliation ever happened.”

“Who taught you such pretty speeches?” he mocks, but it does not sound like mocking. His voice rarely carries the right intonation. His vocal cords have been corroded by fire.

“I, unlike you, Lord Vader, know the laws of this fine Empire.”

“I believe you are unfamiliar with some.” And he signals to his guards. They will torture her, but they will not harm her physically.

If she does not crack, something else will.

He cannot say he enjoys the task before him, but the girl is insolent.

 

 

 It’s when her planet dies – bursts into a thousand blinding stars – that he begins, slowly, to perceive the ghost.

The audacity of her spirit disappears and her face breaks into tears. Seeing her in pain, her suffering fresh and unaltered, is what sends the jolt of memory through him and a flash of Padme resurfaces with such painstaking clarity, imposing herself over the princess’ features that he has to grip the end of his lightsaber, a movement which is thankfully concealed by his robes.

It is his hallowed wife, tears tracking her face as she tells him he is breaking her heart.

Vader grips the lightsaber tighter.

For a moment he has the dreadful suspicion that this is a trick – that the princess is a much more advanced Force-user than he had thought and is trying to control his mind.

Yet, no such advanced Force-user exists to get the better of him. When Leia puts her face in her hands and the image fades, he shudders for the first time in twenty years. He forces himself to believe it was only a passing vision, a twinge of the Light trying to get at him, to make him feel responsible.  But he is not. After all, it is the princess’ fault that Alderaan suffered in her stead. 

Leia lifts her head suddenly, the tears mixing with her fury. She glares at him.

“You’re not worth the dirt under your feet.”

No, it could never be the ghost of his wife. She possessed no such rage.

 

 

Unfortunately for her, she has managed to store the plans inside an R2 droid which means that she has gone against the Empire and is an official criminal, perhaps even worse. 

The only sentence admissible is death. Grand Moff Tarkin considers it a more than just end to a "common whore". She cannot be allowed to live after she has committed high treason.

Vader concurs - in fact, he affects nonchalance. But death, it is too final.

Her punishment should be prolonged. She should witness her darling creation fall to pieces as he crushes the Rebellion like bugs.

Tarkin hums under his breath. He is loath to contradict Vader, knowing his temper and power, but he is not enthusiastic about the idea. “We shall consult the Emperor.”

 

 

Vader bows before his maker and proposes the alteration. The Emperor likes initiative more than anything else. Only the Jedi are static, do nothing, allow things to run into the ground. The Sith’s path is not a path, but a climb. A constant movement upwards. If the universe is infinite, the Sith will cut it in half with his ascension.  

The Emperor inclines his head. “I sense there is something else behind your desire to punish, Lord Vader, but I am intrigued by your boldness. The thirst inside you is growing, I understand. You wish to manipulate the darkness independently. But do not think you can do so without my guidance.”

His words have a frail lilt to them, but Vader knows the strength behind them. He inclines his head. “I am transparent to your gaze, Sire.”

The Emperor chuckles. “I taught you well. Transparency is, after all, a frightful disguise.”

 

 

Princess Leia will live as the private prisoner of Lord Vader. Being under his complete jurisdiction means she will not be harmed by others.

Only him.

 

 

The first time he enters her mind, she is threatening him with a blaster.

When she was transferred to his ship, she was allowed a small but noticeable degree of freedom. No fetters, for one. Her hands were no longer bound. She was still housed in the brig, but her cell boasted a bed.

She ought to have been grateful.

He summoned her to the control room to watch the destruction of another Rebel system, but she managed, in the span of seconds, to get her hands on one of her guards’ weapons.

She doesn’t realize she did it by using the Force. She may have reached for the blaster, but it would not have unfastened from the Stromtrooper’s belt without the power behind her fingers. She’s ignorant of this fact, untrained, after all. He discovers all of this when, moments before she tries to shoot him, he lifts his hand and stops the ray mid-shot. He delves into her mind, forcing her to drop the weapon and fall to her knees. The pressure he applies is small but enough to elicit a moan from her lips. 

He sees flashes of her happy childhood on Alderaan, the privilege of being raised to be a ruler, educated, overfed, beloved.

He sends her an image of sand. He forces her to look at a wide, endless desert. He makes her choke on the sand.

Leia scratches the floor with her fingers. She locks eyes with him.

The budding Force inside of her responds, and the desert consuming her mind shimmers, becomes incandescent, is set on fire.  Flames scorch the sand.  

Vader drops his hand slowly. Leia coughs and heaves, cursing his name in her head.

He has no intention of fomenting her darkness, though she might make a good apprentice. He must resist that temptation.

And still, even brought low, she lifts her head and wipes the spit from her mouth.

 _Is that all you got?_ she seems to ask. But there is also fear in her eyes. Caution. She will not say the words out loud. She has that much sense.

And in that split moment of inarticulate attention, his wife rises from the depths again and settles at the corner of the girl’s mouth. Leia twists her lips the same way. Vader wants to strike her face.

 

 

The rebels have momentarily gone underground and there is a lull in the fighting.  The R2 droid has not been recovered yet, but Vader senses it won’t be too long now.

He decides to return to Mustafar for a brief sojourn. His palace has been restored. He likes to live close to the fire, close to the place where he was almost engulfed.

The princess is appalled when she first lays eyes on the flaming, viscous red, the showers of brimstone, the raging volcanoes.

And she slips up for a moment as she stands beside him – chained this time – on the landing galley. 

“How _can_ you live here?”

Vader stares at her for a moment. “You shall see for yourself, princess.”

 

 

Why he still calls her “princess” is anyone’s guess. She lost the title when she decided to betray the Empire. In fact, it might be a show of disloyalty to utter the name. But he does not know what other denomination could sum her up, this capricious girl who courts death at every turn. He watches her as she steps over the molten rocks, stooping down to rub volcano ash between her fingers. And there is Padme again, bending down to pick up daisies in the meadow on Naboo.

Perhaps it is his own madness, Vader reflects. Perhaps he has climbed too high and the vast darkness is eroding his sense of reality.

He sees himself – a younger self – running towards Padme, picking her up, daisies falling from her fingers.

He fights the impulse to grab the princess by the arm and drag her away. That is what guards are for.

 

 

He continues his translation of the old Sith scrolls to occupy his mind.

He senses his prisoner - the evil image of his wife - lurking in the hallways. There is no point keeping her under lock and key, for she has no way of escaping from a planet of Promethean fire.

Perhaps it is better that she is roaming nearby. It will give him an obstacle to fight against as he tries to regain his focus.

His good hand traces the words written in white ink. The scrolls must be read by letting some blood. As your fingers move over the symbols, little cuts leech at you.

He sucks on his own thumb, drinking the blood, and his tongue scraping against his skin gives him a jolt. Something stirs in the Force. Touch has always been a kind of torture. He would like to say he has not touched a woman since his wife, but there have been a few whores, never pleasure slaves. The efficiency with which he handled them frightens him now a little.

Still, his claim might be true. He has not touched or felt touch since his wife - not really.

He wants to cut his own thumb.

 

 

She joins him for dinner each evening, dressed down in a prisoner’s shapeless cowl, braids gone, hair pinned modestly at her back.

Still, as she bends over the plate and a lock of hair escapes her ear, he almost feels the urge to punish her.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” she breaks the silence one evening, “but I almost miss watching you destroy planets. Anything is better than this place.”

“There is no need for your input at the moment, princess.”

Her shoulders tense. They sit at opposite ends of the table but he can hear her breath catching.

“Don’t call me that.”

“You don’t like to be reminded of the past?”

She scoffs, hides her pain behind a sardonic smile. “It’s the future I’m worried about, Lord Vader.”

 

 

He departs for a brief mission in the neighboring star system. He leaves the princess on Mustafar under heavy guard, but he is strangely not worried. He is relieved to leave her behind.

He does not know that, while she hates him, she hates her prison more.

Upon his reluctant return, she greets him with almost wifely displeasure.

“What took you so long, Lord Vader? I waited so long, I almost started hoping you’d died.”

He punishes her for that by entering her mind, but he is startled to find that she has been truly waiting for his return, desiring it not for his companionship, but because without him, Mustafar is pure abyss.

 

 

He reports to the Emperor about his progress with the Sith scrolls and his master lets him speak and offers no commentary.

Yet right before his hologram disappears, the old man says softly, “There is something coming, Lord Vader. A new pulse in the Force. Have you felt it?”

 

 

That night, he does not sleep. He keeps thinking about the Emperor’s words. Is the new pulse Leia? Has the Emperor sensed her hidden power?

He rises from bed, where rest is always uneasy due to his scars. He steps into the balcony and is greeted by freezing gale and noxious warmth from the mountains of fire before him.

As he grips the iron railing he realizes he called her Leia in his head, and it was quite easy.

 

 

His mind will take a paranoid turn sometimes and wonder if the Emperor put this girl in his path to test him.

_Do you still love your wife? Do you still cling to her memory?_

Perhaps the ultimate test has not yet arrived.

 

 

His wife waltzes into dinner one evening.

Madness has finally triumphed, for there is no doubt; it _must_ be her.

Padme struts into the dining hall dressed in a black and crimson dress, the cut and shape so familiar to him that he nearly chokes on his food.

It is one of her senatorial dresses. Formal, but with a daring swoop around the shoulders.

He wants to go to her, but he is afraid one wrong move would make her disappear. She is but a dream, an evil one. He forces his mind to erase the past.

“I hope you don’t take offense, Lord Vader.” Leia returns. “I took it upon myself to find new garments, since _your_ offerings couldn’t even be called clothes.”

“You took it upon yourself,” he repeats in a scalding monotone as he watches her take her seat gracefully. He could wring her neck.

“I did. I found an old musty wardrobe. Lots of beautiful clothes were going to waste inside. I assume they belong to your former prisoner? Did you throw her in the fire?”

“That is _enough_.”

His tone is so harsh, her hand freezes on her glass.

Vader rises from his chair, intent on leaving the room. But as he passes her seat, he cannot help but linger a moment - just a fraction of a breath - and his gloved hand licks the back of her chair.

 

 

Why did he never burn the dresses? Why does he keep them here like a tainted trousseau, always a reminder of his disgrace?

 

 

It is months into her captivity when she gives in. She knocks on the door of his study. The guard opens the door for her.

Vader looks up from his scrolls.

“What has importuned you, princess?” he drawls, amber eyes searching hers. She is wrapped in a thick robe, black as night, impenetrable.

“I’d like to speak to you, if you don’t mind.”

He arms himself, enforces shields on his conscience– but then he drops them. He will not be cowed by the likes of her.

He nods. The guard closes the door behind him.

Leia turns her eyes to the window where a river of lava is coursing like a dragon’s tongue through the black stones.

She inhales sharply.

Vader can sense her fear, her despair, her trepidation. Perhaps she is ready to give him something, some information in exchange for freedom.

“This – this is maybe what you want,” she says haltingly, untying the robe and letting it fall down her shoulders.

She is a cruel siren.

The black dress covers little, but it also confines the body so tightly, that every part of her invites him. He remembers the dress, how could he not, when it was the night Padme almost relented on Naboo?

And oh, how the story turns upon itself.  Once upon a time, it was he pleading entrance into intimacy, begging Padme to set him free, and now it is he who runs from such begging.

Yet it is not the same story. The princess is cunning. She hopes to seduce him, hopes to garner favor. She will sink low, _far_ lower than his wife, to reach her aims, and for the first time, he feels the erotic draw of the Dark Side, the possibility that she could sink lower and he would be there to catch her.

And would it be so wrong to treat her as a whore?

Even before he thinks it, he knows it is a wretched self-deception. She could never be simply disposable, not if she’s wearing his wife’s skeleton, not if the birds of darkness loom above her.

“Maybe you’re lonely,” she says in that garish way of hers, inviting the devil to care. Here she differs entirely from his wife. Her speech is a mongrel, a strange combination of youth and boyish zeal. 

Yet it makes him wonder – what will she say next?

“Maybe you’d like to subjugate me,” she continues, shrugging all-knowingly despite the way her heart is pounding in her chest. “If that is how you take your pleasure.”

Vader watches her take a step forward.

“But take me,” she says, and the devil does not care, because her voice cracks a little.

Vader walks around his desk, hands folded behind him, fists clenched.

“How would you like me to take you?” He means it as sarcasm, but as always, his delivery is too stark.

“Preferably in the dark,” Leia says without missing a beat.

He circles her from a distance.

“I could make you forget everything.”

The princess lifts her chin. “I’d rather remember, thank you.”

“You’d rather remember how I break you?” he rasps, his hand ghosting over her exposed back but never touching.

Leia’s breath catches in her throat, but she doesn’t turn around.

“Yes.”

He will teach her a lesson in humility, if she craves it so. He moves away from her. He draws a chair next to the window and sits himself down.

“Come to me, then. Induce me to break you.”

Leia stands before him, clasping her fingers nervously. She clenches her jaw. “That’s a mean trick.”

Vader tilts his head. “No meaner than you can survive, princess.”

She gives him a dark look, debating with herself.

After a few moments, she makes her decision. She will not stall, will not prolong the moment.

She goes to him without a trace of guile and lowers herself gingerly on his lap. Like a child on her father’s knee.

Vader rests his hand on the arm of the chair.

“What will you do now?”

Leia breathes hard. The contact is searing, even through their clothes.

“I suppose I could try to harm you, but you’d stop me before I had the chance.”

Vader almost smiles, a feat so rare, she almost smiles herself. As if they are sharing a joke.

She has never seen him quite this close. His face, though baptized by fire, is still compelling. Handsome, in the way madmen in the desert are handsome because they mortify their bodies.

Her fingers tremble slightly as they reach out for his face.

He catches her wrist. “No.”

“All right.”

But she reaches with her other hand before he has the foresight to stop her – her Force against his – and she is touching his jaw, feeling the strength underneath, the molten rivers of fire. The touch burns him like the fire. Suddenly Vader is choking her. Almost against his will. He is afraid of her. Leia gasps, presses a fist to her throat and sways slightly on his lap. He catches her as she falls. His hands circle her waist, metal fingers digging into her spine.

She regains breath slowly, suspended in his arms.

“I hate you,” she says, exhaling the words against his chest. “But I’ll hate you even more if you don’t act the part." 

 _I need you to be Vader_ , her thoughts thread through his, the Force bridging the gap.

He grips the fabric of her dress, his wife’s dress, and makes a tear in the back with his metal fingers as he pulls her to him. He sinks his other hand in her braid – simple and clumsy and nothing like her past ornaments – tugging urgently. When their mouths collide, the symmetry is imperfect, his scars spill into her mouth.  Leia parts her lips and his tongue pours darkness. She kisses back bravely, not to be outdone. She wants this to be her choice, even when nothing has been decided by her. Between their lips air barely has room. This is worse than being choked, she thinks, because she feels dizzier, lightning coursing through her veins. She has this sudden awful feeling that he will kiss her until she is dead and this _excites_ her even as it appalls her. She thinks about her parents – dead and unburied – her mother’s tears, how horrified her father would be to learn that she has entered this cage willingly.

 

 

Her hands tentatively explore his scars and he closes his eyes. Leia imagines a dagger running a red froth against his throat as her thumb traces a raised burn on his neck.

“Did you –” and she stares out the window of his bedchamber, “did it happen out there? On those hellish rocks?”

Vader does not reply. He does not want to think about pain. How he has missed the touch of his beloved, even if she is a stranger.

The room spins as he throws her on the bed. He is not gentle, but he is not callous.  He wants to take revenge on his wife for leaving him. 

“Can you – at least – do it quick?” she says, voice meek for the first time since he’s known her.

Vader towers over her. “No. You do not know what you are doing.”

Leia thinks he is dismissing her, having changed his mind. She wants to slide off the sheets, but he pins her back down. “I said you don’t know what you are doing. Not that I won't show you.”

 

 

The Emperor would approve of such a cruel act. To take away a girl’s animal innocence.

 

 

Padme moans and Leia moans with her. The two of them entwined, their skin glowing.

His fingers return to the familiar shades of his wife’s body and he allows the Force to subsume her.

Leia rolls her head against the pillow and Padme cries out. Tongue traces dark hair, the same shade, always the same shade.

When they are both ready, Vader settles between their thighs. Padme wants to envelop him in warmth, Leia wants to grip him, trap him, drain him.

The Dark embraces them. There is no climb anymore. The Sith has reached his apex.

He enters them by degrees, always imposing one image over another.

But the women become distinct when Leia says, “ _Vader_ ”, softly. Something his wife would never say.

He wishes he could tell her what to call him.

Padme disappears in a choking mist and he looks down at her spirit reborn, the woman who is imperfect yet stronger than his wife, who could carry him further as _Vader_.

“Just – please – will you – inside me –” she rasps after he has teased her entrance enough.

Inside her – gods _inside_ her – is the rage and the balm, the claws and the silk, the motion of the planets. He moves in her and translates the world.

He takes a dark breast in his mouth and the princess arches into him, begging him _no, don’t make me – don’t – god –_

 _Don’t make me follow you_ , is what she struggles to express, but her mind is consumed by waves and waves of endless night.  

_It’s too late for that,_ he responds, biting into her flesh, dragging her hips against him, striking a match.

 

(when he comes inside her and his seed  runs between her thighs she feels this sense of self-completion, almost like she has fucked herself. he cleans her with his tongue until there is no trace of him and yet he is everywhere)

 

 

Padme did not like to be touched too intimately with his metal arm. 

Leia needs it around her throat, needs it inside her too. She sucks on the phalanges, drinks her own seed. 

 

 

 

In the morning, the fog is red. Outside it rains ash and hailstones.

Leia is on her hands and knees on the bed and she watches him over her shoulder. “I can’t think about it, I can’t think about it – _please_.”

A distraction – yes, feeling good, this is all that matters on this wretched planet.

He takes her from behind, fucks her without the grace of night.

By daylight, she sees the torment of his body, keeps her eyes on him as he makes her scream.

 

 

The Jedi must be chaste.

The Sith must _be_ desire. They must inhabit the very notion. He cannot stop.

“Don’t – don’t stop –” she urges him, because she understands.

 

 

“I was burned here,” he admits eventually. “I fought an old master and failed.”

“Where is he now?” Leia asks, standing on the balcony’s edge, staring at his profile.

“He is still alive. I can feel him sometimes. Yet I don’t wish to go to him. He must come to me.”

Leia pulls the robes closer to her skin. “Maybe don’t set a match on _this_ planet again.”

And she almost falls down into the fiery rocks below when Vader erupts into a harsh laugh. She made him laugh. She didn’t think it was possible. The amber in his eyes has turned into a dusky orange.

When he enters her mind that night and pours darkness, he whispers against her throat, _you could help me_.

And she knows – she _knows_ – he doesn’t mean redemption. He doesn’t mean she could be his light.

On the contrary, she could take him to new heights of evil, and she hates herself for it. 

 

 

The Emperor warned him, but he did not heed.

_There is something coming, Lord Vader. A new pulse in the Force. Have you felt it?_

 

 

It is a daring mission to land on a planet of fire and lava and save a princess from her captor’s clutches, which is why Luke Skywalker throws himself into the task.

Obi-Wan tells him to stay behind him. This is his fight. He has come to face Vader once and for all.

Luke promises he will not put himself in danger and he’s such an innocent, he’s not even lying.

Vader is standing on the raised platform before his palace, waiting for him, but he is not alone.

Obi-Wan stops in his tracks. He opens his mouth.

Leia is garbed in a purple-green dress that once belonged to Padme. It leaves her neck bare where the old master can see teeth marks and stolen embraces.

 _Obi-Wan_ , she mouths, recognizing him, but her shock does not have time to manifest.

Vader places a possessive arm around Leia’s waist, dragging her closer, and it all falls into place.

“Have you come to end things, old man?” Anakin calls out in a warped voice Obi-Wan does not recognize.

He ignores his student’s taunt. He forgets about the fight.

He falls down on the molten rocks before his padwan.

Anakin frowns. “Rise, old man –”

 But Obi-Wan cannot. He holds a hand over his mouth and from that mouth breaks through a wail, a terrible, sorrowful wail.

“No – Anakin – what have you _done_ –”

 

 

Luke Skywalker slides off the rocks and rushes towards Obi-Wan.

He sees the lightsaber draw a wide arc through the air.

“No!”

He runs and runs and prays that his friend is still alive, that he can take up the weapon and avenge him, if necessary –

But Obi-Wan is not dead. His grey robes are caked in blood. He stands over a dark body, tears tracking his cheeks.

From Luke’s vantage point, it looks as if the man – Vader – impaled himself with his own saber.

Luke heaves, vomits his victuals.

On the platform, the princess screams and scratches at her face.

 

 

 (before he plunges the saber inside himself he looks at her and in his amber eyes she sees that he still loves her beyond blood and this is why he must die. he will never be able to stop himself)

 

 

Later, she is sedated. She sleeps and dreams of him, an evil dream.

She stops him right before he plunges the lightsaber inside him. She stays his wrist. She has the strength - his strength – to make him submit. The Force courses through her like a newborn. She takes up the saber and plunges the tip into Obi-Wan’s chest.

Then she takes Vader by his steel fingers and leads him back into the palace.

 

 

Luke is beside her when she wakes up and he tells her that everything will be all right, that she is safe now, that they will take care of her. He clasps her hand.

No, she will never be safe, she thinks. Not in her own body.

 

 

The Rebels cheer for her, for they believe she was the true author behind Vader’s death. After all, she had planted a message for Obi-Wan inside the droid. She had orchestrated everything. They cannot find out the truth, they must never.

But the fight has gone out of her. She sits and plans and offers meager words of comfort to those who still fight, and all the while, she is somewhere else.

She cradles her stomach and waits for the last day before she can have the abortion.

Even abominations are hard to let go. (if she were to birth him, he would have her dark hair and his father's disturbing beauty. she would name him Ben for the man who unravelled it all)

 

 

(there was a night when she lay sleeping next to him, muttering in her dreams about needing to go home and see her father, since he must be worried sick. Anakin turned towards her and ran his knuckles against her cheek.

“Say it,” he whispered. “Say my name, just once. Just once.”

But neither his wife, nor Leia, ever answered.)

 

 im

**Author's Note:**

> ....so, are you traumatized? 
> 
> (also yes, maybe ben/kylo is...the child)


End file.
